


One More, part 2

by Cali_se



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sequel, Sherlock Loves John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cali_se/pseuds/Cali_se
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after their reunion, events take another turn...</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More, part 2

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel, or part 2, of [One More](http://archiveofourown.org/works/411222.html#cutid1), my own take on Sherlock's fall and return.

When John woke up, the pale early morning sun was peeping through a small crack in the curtains, and he was alone in the bedroom. For one mad, panic stricken moment he wondered if he might have dreamed it all. Perhaps Sherlock had been nothing but a ghost after all, sent fleetingly back from the dead just to give him a brief taste of what could have been?

He lay still and silent for a while, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and it dawned on him that he was actually afraid: afraid to move, afraid to get up; afraid to discover that the whole night had been nothing but a fairytale. This was not good. Not good at all. 

The sudden, mundane clatter of teacups and spoons brought him back round to reality. Either he had a thirsty burglar downstairs rummaging through his cutlery drawer, or... 

Or someone had stayed the night. 

Footsteps on the stairs followed soon after the rattling and rummaging, and John sighed with relief, safe in the knowledge that he could call himself sane once more.

The startlingly homely sight of Sherlock Holmes carrying a tray of breakfast things greeted John as he looked up towards the door. There was a teapot and two cups, a milk jug, sugar bowl, a plate of hot buttered toast and scrambled eggs. Maybe he _was_ dreaming...

"Good morning, John."

"Morning."

"I took the liberty of introducing myself to your kitchen."

"Okay."

"You didn't have all the ingredients necessary to make Eggs Benedict so, um, it's just eggs."

"That's... well, that's lovely. So, what have I done to deserve this?"

"More than you'll ever know."

When Sherlock didn't return his smile, John felt slightly uneasy without knowing exactly why. He quickly dismissed it and took up his knife and fork to cut into beautifully made scrambled eggs. "I really need this this morning. Thanks." 

"You're welcome."

"Aren't you eating?"

"Liquid only this early in the morning, John." Sherlock pulled open the curtains a little, letting in more light. "You remember."

"Well, things might have changed. Things _have_ changed. God, this is really delicious, Sherlock. What else can you do that I don't know about?"

Sherlock didn't reply, but John thought he caught the beginnings of a smile on Sherlock's lips as he sipped his tea. He stood at the window while John ate, fully dressed, as they'd both been when they'd eventually fallen asleep. Side by side they'd lain together, all night, not touching except by accident when they turned over or resettled themselves, content just to be in the same room. The kisses and the hug they'd shared had sufficed for the time being somehow. _Like a couple of teenagers_ thought John. Socially inept teenagers at that. He smiled into his tea. He wanted to laugh out loud. 

_Sherlock's alive._

"I do have to thank you, John," Sherlock said, "for not punching me. Or _shooting_ me. As I recall, you were armed." He took a sip of his tea, and glanced at John with another small smile.

"I almost did -- punch you, I mean. I felt like it. At first."

"And now?

"The urge has gone.”

"Good."

"Are you ever going to tell me, Sherlock? Why? Why and how and--"

"I've told you."

"All of it, I mean. The truth."

"Probably. Sometime. There's a lot to tell, John. Perhaps--"

"What?"

"Perhaps I need to choose my moment."

"Okay." John nodded. "Okay." 

Sherlock perched on the bed, cupping his tea in his palms. 

"One more thing -- we did kiss last night, didn't we?" John continued. "I mean, it was real. I didn't dream that part?"

Sherlock took another sip of tea. "Yes. We did... kiss." He cleared his throat. John detected a hint of uncertainty -- _not like him at all_ \-- and his arms ached to reach out to his friend. "You were overwrought and upset, John, and it seemed... the right thing to do." 

"Right. Because we never did that before, did we?"

"No. No. Don’t _think_ we ever did that."

"It was nice."

Sherlock shifted against the bed. "Mm." 

"Did you ever want to?"

"Did you?" 

"I asked first."

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone rang. John gave a wry smile. _Saved by the bloody bell._

Sherlock regarded the caller id. "Mycroft," he informed John before answering. "Hello."

John watched as Sherlock paced, answering his brother with the same old adolescent sneer. _Not much has changed between them, then,_ he thought, and found the notion strangely comforting. 

"I'm with John Watson. Yes. Well, you were wrong, weren't you? Mm? Well, it has been known. Oh, he was ecstatic as you can imagine. No, I haven't asked... Not yet. Yes... Yes, Mycroft! Must go now. Yes, I am -- very busy. Yes, really! I'll see you soon, Mycroft. Bye." Sighing impatiently, he dropped his phone on the bed and drank another gulp of tea as he joined it.

"What was he wrong about?" John asked.

"Mm? Oh. Nothing much. He just said you wouldn't be pleased to see me. That you've moved on."

"Well, I have... I've moved, anyway."

"Not the same thing, John."

"And I'm working again, and I've been dating--"

"Dating?"

"Yes. Well, until recently. Something always... gets in the way. So you discussed it with your brother? About finding me again?"

"Yes."

"And how long did it take before you came to find me?" John asked him. "How long were you back, before you came here?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. It does. You were gone a bloody long time, Sherlock. Now, I don't know exactly what you did, but I can guess it wasn't an all-expenses paid holiday to Barbados. I'm hoping one day you'll let me in. Tell me. But that can wait. "

"Yes, John. It really can."

"But I expect you needed to, you know, re-adjust before you found all your old... acquaintances. Before you went to see Mrs. Hudson, and came to look for me. So, how long did it take to find me?"

"It wasn't difficult, John. Once I found out you weren't at Baker Street or indeed in London, I knew you'd be a long way away from both."

"How?"

"Knowing you as I think I do, I deduced that you'd either remain exactly where you'd been before--"

"--you died--"

"--or need to move as far away as possible."

"I see."

There was a long pause before either of them spoke again. "Have you plans?" Sherlock asked. "Is this where you envisage being, for the foreseeable future?"

"Possibly."

"It's a nice, quiet place, isn't it?" Sherlock said. "As good a place as any for a fresh start."

"Mm."

"On the other hand, we still have 221b."

John regarded his friend for a moment. "Is... Is that what you want? To go back to all that?"

"I would like to go back to living in London as a permanent arrangement, yes. It's always been my intention. I miss it. Don't you?"

"I-- " John shook his head, and then sighed.

"What?"

"I don't miss the life I had before... before I met you." John looked down at the cup cradled in his hands and cleared his throat. "But I miss what we had. I didn't realise just how much you had become a part of me. And these past months... God! I've missed you. Sherlock. You have no idea how much." He shook his head again, in a vain attempt to dispel the building emotion. 

"I am sorry, John." 

John gave a small smile. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"How sorry? Exactly?"

"Very sorry."

"How sorry is very sorry?"

"Desperately sorry."

"Desperately?"

"Yes."

"Come here and say it," John said.

Sherlock moved a little closer, a small smile quirking his lips. 

"That's not close enough, Sherlock. Come closer," John commanded; Sherlock obeyed, taking the cup from John and placing it on the floor. "How sorry are you?"

"I am truly, deeply, irrevocably sorry." Sherlock's face was now inches from John's, his eyes as usual capturing and keeping prisoner all they surveyed. 

John reached up and cupped Sherlock's cheek. His fingers roamed up into Sherlock's tousled dark hair as he leaned in to kiss him. And Sherlock was ready; their mouths met, and this time it didn't stop at a chaste kiss promising more. This time it delivered on that promise. 

They wrapped their arms around one another. John could feel Sherlock's hands on his back, then round his waist; then the longed for touch of slender fingertips grazing his skin beneath his clothes. As they pulled away John touched a finger to Sherlock's full and luscious mouth. "I am still really, bloody, annoyed that you didn't contact me. And that _might_ come up now and then -- for a while."

"All right."

"But I do forgive you, an--"

John didn't have time to finish. Sherlock's lips took away his words, his breath, his fear. 

It was no trouble at all to undress once they'd started. Easy, simple, like it was second nature, each man spurred on by the need to touch the other. Trousers, shirts, jumpers, socks were all made quick work of and discarded in a pile on the floor. Once down to his underwear, however, John’s brain switched to a different, overwhelming awareness. Laid bare, almost literally, before the man he thought he'd lost, he suddenly felt silly, bashful. Was this the same Sherlock who had tricked him with a fall from a roof? Was this the man he’d missed so dreadfully all those sleepless nights and reckless days? Obviously, it was. No two people could look like that. But something had changed deep down. Something that had caused Sherlock to declare himself with a kiss, and another, and another; to open up to the possibility of wanting someone else, holding someone else, making love to someone else. 

"What happened, Sherlock?" John asked. "While you were away? I'm a doctor, remember? A soldier. There's nothing you could tell me that would shock me."

Sherlock either ignored John's question or didn't hear it, as instead of replying he kissed him again (it felt like a plea) and then moved down onto the bed, taking John with him before holding him there, close and tight against him. 

"It's just..." John's voice sounded muffled to his own ears; "this... it's so different. You're--"

"John?" Sherlock's low voice rumbled in John's hair.

"Yes?"

"Do shut up."

And that was that. John laughed, and they kissed again, and Sherlock peeled off his underwear and John's too, and placed his long, slender body atop his friend's shorter frame. Logic was banished by instinct after that, shyness overtaken by desire. There was no going back, and neither man would have wanted to take that route anyway. Sherlock in a state of arousal was far more remarkable than John had ever imagined, even in his more feverish daydreams. And he, too, found himself more aroused than he had ever been as he moved blissfully, at last, under Sherlock's touch. Now and then, they paused to look at one another, as if they weren't quite sure it was really happening. John had always found Sherlock's eyes mesmerizing; now that they were lust-filled as well, it was almost too much for one man to take. On the third occasion their eyes met, he caught the silver-blue-green gaze and held it as he reached down to touch Sherlock's cock, taking it in hand. It felt good against his palm: long and thick, heavy with expectation, the silky flesh warm and smooth. He squeezed, and through a haze of desire watched Sherlock's eyes close to the sensation. His own eyes drifted closed as he felt Sherlock's hand on him too, further concentrating his attention on the sensation of touch as they began to move against one another. Rocking their bodies together, the friction slowly building and taking them steadily towards climax, they made love with industry and passion; their mouths and tongues kissed and sucked as their fingers pressed, caressed, and stroked, until intense waves of pleasure spread and spilled, leaving their bodies sweaty and spent, their legs weak, and their bellies slick with come. 

John lay staring at the ceiling, caught between relief and disbelief, his sated limbs awash with a kind of overwhelming sense of -- what was it? -- achievement, accomplishment? He couldn't quite put a name to it. When he turned to Sherlock, he found that he too was staring at the ceiling. 

"If you're searching for traces of regret, John," Sherlock said at last, "I'm afraid you won't find any."

"I'm not. I'm just... looking. I can't quite believe what just happened."

"And yet we have the evidence to prove it." Sherlock ran a hand across his belly.

"Oh. Hold on." John got up to grab his bath towel from the radiator. He gave himself a quick wipe before passing it to Sherlock; than he sank down on to the rumpled sheets and laced his hands together in his lap. A small laugh escaped. 

"What is it?" Sherlock asked him.

"Oh, you know, just taking in the fact I'm sitting here stark bollock naked and you're there wiping my come off your stomach. Nothing much."

Sherlock grinned. Wicked was the word that sprang to John's mind. Wicked and beautiful. 

"You didn't answer my question, by the way," John continued. 

"Which question?"

The question I asked you. Earlier. Did you ever want to kiss me? Or-- this? Ever? Before last night?"

"Let's just say that my being away clarified... certain things. "

"And?"

"And nothing." Sherlock sat up and ran a hand through his tousled hair. "I need a cigarette. Yes, Doctor Watson, I've lapsed. Although I've been _very_ good -- first one in... ah, twelve hours, I believe." He got up and further ruffled his hair then took down his coat from the door hook, feeling in the pockets for his pack and lighter. He draped his coat around his naked shoulders and went to the window. "Okay if I just open this?"

John nodded. Normally he insisted that visitors (okay, mainly Harry) smoked outside, but today he just wanted to bask in his lover's presence. He watched as Sherlock opened the window and lit up, and his stomach turned soft with renewed desire. It shouldn't have been remotely sexy watching someone draw in their tobacco hit, and blow smoke out into the breeze, but John couldn't help finding it so this morning. He took in Sherlock's profile, and his lips as they pursed around the tip of the cigarette, and he swallowed hard. He was in love with this man. And that was that. _Sorry, dad._

"I have a proposition for you, John." 

"Another one? So soon?"

Sherlock turned and smiled. " _Another_ kind of proposition. I've been reliably informed of a blackmail ring that's operating in the city. It climbs, well, pretty high up, shall we say. Mycroft thinks--"

"You said earlier -- on the phone -- you said you hadn't asked me about something yet. Is this it?"

"Yes. Got slightly... sidetracked."

"That's one word for it!"

Sherlock took a drag of his cigarette through his smile. 

"So, what is the proposition?" John asked.

"Will you come back to London with me, John? Mycroft has told -- _asked_ \-- me to look into it. Frankly, I think there's a lot more to it than he's letting on."

"Why?"

"Because he specifically asked me to ask you to come back with me. Obviously he thinks you'll be useful in some way -- some way that I alone won't be. Are you in?"

"I don't know."

"You must miss it, John. _All that_ , as you put it earlier. The adrenalin. The thrill. The chase. You and me against the world."

John gave a small exhale-come-laugh, and nodded. "Ooh, low shot."

Sherlock put out the cigarette in his tea cup and made his way to the bed, shrugging off his coat. "But it worked."

"I can't just drop everything and get the train with you this minute, Sherlock. I have a job here, for a start."

"A stop gap."

"And there's this place to sort--"

"Rented, I would imagine. Unless... a sudden windfall?"

"No. No such luck..."

"So you can give notice."

"I suppose so. But I've built a life here since..."

"Well, now I'm back and we can carry on--"

"What? Where we left off? This-- You coming back, the kisses, the sex. It's what I dreamed of for... so long. God, you really have no idea how many times I thought about it. But..."

"But what?"

"How--” John took a breath. "How do I know you won't just leave? Again? Because, Sherlock, I don't think I could go through that again. Not now. _Especially_ not now."

Sherlock lay back and held out his arm, draping it around John as he lay against him. "Mrs. Hudson will be so disappointed if we don't go back."

"Oh. You've discussed it all with her too, then?"

"Of course. She's quite possibly putting the kettle on as we speak."

John closed his eyes, as if to speak with them open would feel too raw, too deeply felt, too honest. "I'm in love with you, Sherlock." He said it quickly, as though ripping off a plaster. "And that makes a difference. To me, anyway." 

They turned to look at one another, their eyes roaming over each other's faces as though taking in every little detail. 

"John. I'm... flattered," Sherlock replied.

"Not again! Is that it? Is that all, Sherlock? Flattered?"

"No. That's not all. I'm flattered. And I'm glad. And..." Sherlock moved to lie atop John, settling himself between John's legs, which opened to welcome him. "...and wanting to reciprocate..." He leaned in to kiss John, pressing their bodies together as their lips met.

John closed his eyes and smiled into their kiss, and further out into the peace and quiet of a room that was practically unrecognisable to him now that he shared it with Sherlock. It was a tentative peace; a peace that held within it the knowledge that something exciting was just around the corner. A life with Sherlock. A life where _all this_ could be his. And, god, was he ready for it.

TBC?


End file.
